


The Bodyguard

by MagdaTheMagpie



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Assassins & Hitmen, Bodyguard, Bombs, Crossover, Crossover Pairings, F/M, Hospitalization, Magic, Obligatory Shower Scene, Romance, Terrorists
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-29
Updated: 2015-01-02
Packaged: 2018-03-04 04:44:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2952755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MagdaTheMagpie/pseuds/MagdaTheMagpie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hermione is very busy with her work as an Unspeakable so it's with great reluctance that she accepts the Minister of Magic's demand to be a muggle's bodyguard for the next two weeks. But really, how hard can it be to protect this Mycroft Holmes?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: In this fic, Hermione is single and has been an Unspeakable for a little over a decade so she will seem OOC compared to the school-girl Hermione we know and love from the books and that's alright because people usually change as they grow up (especially if they work in the Department of Mysteries).

 

Hermione smoothed out her robes with one hand, grimacing as she realized too late it was full of fairy dust and she now had a glittery streak all down her front. She shrugged. As an Unspeakable, she seldom went up to the higher levels of the building and, in all the years she had worked at the Ministry, she could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times she had been summoned to the Minister’s office.

For the last twelve years - since the end of the war against Voldemort - Kingsley Shacklebolt had happily lead the magical folk of Great-Britain and it didn’t look as if it would change anytime soon. Hermione was glad for it. For once, it wasn’t an absolute moron at the head of the government. The magical one, at least, she wasn’t so sure about the muggle one as she had been a bit out of touch from the world she had been born into.

“Kingsley is waiting for me,” she announced to the secretary as she strode through the antechamber and pushed the Minister’s doors wide open for a dramatic entrance. She didn’t have much time to lose. She had an experiment on the fire, literally.

“Hermione, thanks for coming. Please take a seat,” the Minister told, her pushing away the papers he had been fiddling with.

He then turned towards his secretary as she half-ran, half-hobbled on her too-high heels, her hair not as impeccable as they had just been a minute prior. She must have run to catch up to her and tripped on her highly dysfunctional shoes. Six inches, I ask you!

“That’ll be all, Sandra. Thank you,” Kingsley told his employee as Hermione smirked at the dishevelled woman from her seat.

“So,” Hermione said, foregoing any kind of smalltalk to gain them both much needed time. “If I’m here, I guess you have a favor to ask?”

“Perceptive, as usual,” Kingsley answered smoothly. “Although it’s not really considered a favor when I am, in fact, your employer.”

“Debatable,” Hermione replied.

“Body-guard duty,” the Minister told her, wincing before she had even started groaning about how such a job was so very dull and boring.

“You know I hate that. Why don’t you send in one of your aurors. I thought that’s what they were for.”

“And you know that I kmow Unspeakables have a wider variety of talents for this specific line of work.”

Hermione jumped out of her seat and paced exactly twice in front of Kingsley’s overly large desk.

“Who?” she asked.

“My contact in the muggle government.”

“The Prime Minister?” she blurted out.

That would be a very high-profile job indeed, and, although she had done well in the past with these particular missions, she would never have guessed she would be called upon for it. Surely there were more experienced people out there, she liked theorizing and experimenting more than anything else.

“No. The Ministers of Magic now contact a… behind the scenes man, so-to-speak, one who actually has power over the British government and doesn't change quite as often.”

Hermione thought about this for a minute before nodding.

“That makes sense. Who?”

“Mycroft Holmes. I can floo you there to start your duty, effective immediately.”

“How long?”

“Two weeks,” the Minister answered before looking away. “Probably more.”

Hermione sighed loud and long until she had no more breath to give, showing her displeasure as much as she could, but Kingsley’s face was splitting into a grin, knowing that if she hadn’t left by now, she was in.

“You’ll owe me,” she warned.

“I pay you a salary,” he replied, rolling his eyes.

He then walked over to his chimney, threw in a handful of glittering powder, waited for the flames to turn green and muttered an address she didn’t care much about overhearing. She stepped in, just then remembering about the experiment she had left to stew down in the Department of Mysteries. Oh, well. Kingsley could only blame himself when it all exploded, if you thought about it. He’d have to clean up the gooey mess himself.

 

OoOoO

 

Mycroft observed curiously as his fireplace turned green. One thing he could say about the wizarding population was that they were always right on time. He expected to see their Minister for Magic walk out, all dark muscles and shiny shaved head, grinning his white grin as he looked genuinely happy to see him for some unfathomable reason.

However, it was his complete opposite who stepped out: a petite woman with long wild hair and a frown, as if he was the one bothering her with his presence in his own home.

“Minister Shacklebolt was busy, I presume,” he said, attempting to be polite.

“Who isn’t?” she sniped back, throwing him a lazy glance before attempting to pat the soot and -was that glitter?- out of her strange garb. “You’re Mycroft Holmes, I imagine? I’ll be your bodyguard for the next two weeks apparently, if not more. I presume you would like an unseen protection?” she asked and Mycroft nodded.

“Well, it’s not like I could loom over you anyway,” she said, craning her neck to look him in the eyes as she approached. “Don’t worry, I never lost anyone before and you won’t even know I’m here.”

And before Mycroft could get his wits together to answer something to take her down a peg or two, she vanished right before his eyes.

He turned around and back again, then closed his eyes, trying to locate her, her footsteps or her breathing at least, but try as he might, he could swear she was not even here. He was about to call her when he realized he didn’t even know her name.

“I don’t even know your name,’ he protested petulantly.

Damn her, she was making him as angry as only his youngest brother usually managed to, and she was doing so in record time too.

“Hermione, or Granger,” answered her incorporeal voice right beside his left ear, making him twitch. “Or whatever you call your other underlings and lackeys. I don’t really care,” she whispered in his right ear.

He shuddered and decided the best course of action was just to forget about his invisible bodyguard altogether. She was simply too strange and unsettling, and he met with Sherlock Holmes on a regular basis, so that was saying a lot.

 

That night, Mycroft undressed to change into his pajamas with an uneasy prickle nagging him at the back of his neck and he almost called out to the strange woman shadowing him to ask if she was there, but he shook his head, reminding himself to just do as if she didn’t exist.

 

OoOoO

 

Hermione watched as Mycroft slept. She never called the people she was tasked to protect by their last names. Being an invisible bodyguard, she got to know her charges too intimately for such trivialities. Sometimes better than they knew themselves, so she didn’t even bother calling them by anything other than their given names. If she had to, she’d even call the Queen herself Elizabeth and thought that might be the reason why Kingsley would never assign her to royal duty.

Mycroft didn’t snore. She thought it might be because he didn’t let himself sleep too deeply, always keeping half his brain awake in case he was needed for an emergency. Just in the last two hours before bedtime, he had been juggling staff and resources to avoid  two major catastrophes, and that had included dinnertime.

She was not often impressed but she had to give credit where credit was due: this man was actually important, vital even, so she didn’t feel as sullen towards Kingsley as she had been when he had given her this assignment.

Settling herself in an extravagantly cosy armchair located in a shadowy corner of the room, she set up wards to shock her into wakefulness if so much as a butterfly’s wings fluttered too close to her charge and she promptly fell asleep.

 

She woke up with Mycroft’s strident alarm-clock going off. It was a bit violent. Why did he think he needed such a disagreeable sound to start his day? She waited for the man to traipse lazily towards the bathroom before taking his alarm-clock apart and bewitching the appropriate parts so his awakenings would not be as terrible as they were already.

A relaxed charge was a more malleable charge, she sing-songed to herself as she sauntered over towards the steamy bathroom. The man was just getting out of the shower himself, throwing a large fluffy bathrobe around his lean body and she knew she wouldn’t have time to shower herself today without being noticed so she scourgified herself, wincing as the cleaning spell rubbed a bit too forcefully at her cheeks and followed Mycroft back to his room and into his walk-in closet.

Merlin! The man was a diva. It took him a full half-hour  to choose a suit, belt, shirt, shoes, cufflinks, cravat and even choosing socks and underpants was a well thought-out ordeal. But then, she had to admit the result was rather impeccable and gave him a sharp, impeccable  edge that came in handy when you had to order a whole lot of people around all day.

He took breakfast alone at a very long table and she had to wonder why he had such a long table in the first place. It left her with a sad, lonely impression, especially because he didn’t even have a cat.

She watched him eat, stealing a toast here and an apple there when he was focused on his newspaper. She looked over his shoulder to see what had caught his attention so thoroughly and read a bold title that claimed a murderer she had never heard of had been caught. That was good, she supposed. Then the coffee pot caught her attention and she syphoned half of it into her thermos when Mycroft left the table.

 

Sneaking into his car was easy enough because his pretty assistant, Anthea, was holding the door open for him. Reverse gallantry, she thought, nice.

But after that it was a boring series of meetings with various boring people who had titles and names as long as her arm and could talk a rabid hippogriff to sleep if you gave them a chance. Mycroft might be powerful and respected, but she didn’t envy him. His job was dull most of the time.

 

The week came to an end and Mycroft seemed to have forgotten about her entirely, except when his alarm went off and he cursed it for not ringing as it should. She stifled a giggle as she imagined he probably thought she was slacking off and had left a long time ago when in reality, she had never left him for more than a couple of minutes. Yes, even Hermione had basic needs she couldn’t really perform by shadowing her charge nonstop and that included bathroom breaks.

However she was as alert as anyone could be asked to. She knew that if Kingsley had assigned her to protect this man, it meant there was a real threat, whether magical or muggle and she knew by now that Mycroft had more enemies than friends.

 

Hermione’s usefulness was proven that very night when her ward shocked her awake from a much needed sleep. She lit her wand with a soft glow and immediately spotted a black form slytherin its way across the white sheets and towards Mycroft’s head.

With one swift cutting hex, the head of the snake, a poisonous tropical breed that could in no way have found its way here by accident, separated from the rest of its sleek body.

Mycroft blinked into wakefulness in mere seconds, giving credence to her theory that he never allowed himself to go into deeper sleep than he could afford. He looked at her, standing right next to him, then to the  remains of the snake on the other side.

“Need me to bag it?” she asked with a grin, because Mycroft had a cute frown line that appeared right in the middle of his two eyebrows as soon as he was awake and functional.

“No, thank you,” he said without so much as a tremor.  “Given the breed of the snake, I have a pretty good idea who sent it. You can just...dispose of it.”

Hermione flicked her wand and the corpse and associated bodily fluids disappeared as if they had never stained the sheets. Mycroft’s mouth went slack for a fraction of a second and Hermione wondered if he had actually witnessed that much magic before. If not, he was a master at hiding his emotions.

 

OoOoO

 

His bodyguard was staring at him. Why was she staring at him? He was almost 100% certain he had not let anything show on his face. He had hidden his surprise at seeing her there, his anger at seeing one of his enemy’s pathetic little ‘gifts’, his disgust at the mangled body on his bed and his awe at seeing another bit of magic performed right before him.

Then she was extending a hand towards his face and he froze, like a deer caught in daylight, not sure of what was happening, before she wiped her warm palm across his cheek, announcing cheerfully:

“There, all gone. Sorry it got so close but those buggers are really fast and sneaky.”

And then she vanished into thin air again before he could say anything. But say what? Thank you for saving my life from a most painful death? No, that was her job after all. If he went about thanking all the people who did their job, he’d be wasting the working-hours he already had so little of.

So he turned on his other side and closed his eyes tight, trying to catch the coattails of the dream he had been having before his sudden waking-up. He wasn’t sure what it had been about, but it had been nice, and he wouldn’t mind a bit more of that in his life. After twenty minutes he gave up and stared into the darkness of his room, trying to locate his bodyguard. If he had to be honest, he had thought she had left days ago and hadn’t given her any mind. He had other security agents around him after all, not around the clock of course, but he was now seeing the utility of that.

His eyes rested on the armchair in the right corner of his room and almost slid past it but something caught his eye. He couldn’t see anything on the chair itself but there was something not quite right with it either. It took him a few more minutes to realize the shadows were not coherent, a bit distorted, like a picture photoshopped by an amateur.

Gotcha, he thought childishly before falling asleep again.

 

The next morning, his alarm clock woke him up slowly with soothing music as it was won’t to do since his body-guard had arrived. He cursed it out of habit. He had rather liked the shot of adrenalin his previous strident alarm gave him and the machine now barely deserved to be called an alarm-clock. He’d be buggered before he admitted he was just that little bit less stressed in the morning though.

He walked unsteadily to the bathroom and took a piss before stripping and throwing open the doors of his large walk-in shower, turning the taps to scalding hot. Touching his cheek, he could feel it was still a bit sticky from the snake’s blood so he energetically rubbed it with soap and a washcloth until it felt raw.

He was alert now, his brain functioning at full capacity, when he wondered where his body-guard was when he showered. Surely, she didn’t follow him in the bathroom? He did leave the door between his bedroom and bathroom open, out of habit, but she wouldn’t… Oh, goddamnit, she would follow him here, wouldn’t she?

“Erm…” he hesitated on what to call her, having never done so before and having always thought of her before as the crazy woman or the bodyguard, both of which sounded a bit rude, especially after she had saved his life last night. His ‘lackeys' or 'underlings’ as she had called them, he usually called by their first name so he would offer her the same courtesy.

“Hermione?”

Yes, he felt really stupid talking to himself under the shower, his hair still full of bubbles and a soapy washcloth in his hand.

“Yes?” came her corporeal voice. Too close, much too close.

He groaned and tried to cover himself with the small piece of cloth.

“You’re in the shower, aren’t you?” he asked, too bewildered to be angry.

“Of course I am. How do you think I’d shower otherwise?” she answered easily.

Mycroft narrowed his eyes and scrutinized his surroundings. His shower was large, luxurious even, with jets of water at regular intervals, but it wasn’t so large that he couldn’t spot a clutter of bubbles foaming on his left that had no business to be foaming there in the first place. It was easier to make out the rest of her womanly figure after that and he groaned, feeling his cock twitch at the sight.

“Can’t you- you know- magic yourself clean?” he asked, thinking hard about the disgusting things he usually found in his brother’s fridge so his budding arousal would please give up and not make a fool of him.

“Sure, and I do, from time to time, but it’s really not as effective as a good warm soapy shower. It even stings a little,” she replied, not seeming to mind sharing a shower with a man she didn’t even know, but that might be due to the fact that she had the luxury of being invisible. “Besides, after last night. I might even follow you into the men’s loo too after last night's incident. You never know what could be hidden under a toilet seat.”

Mycroft felt his face flush.

“No, please. Your diligence is… admirable, but I insist you wait for me outside of the men’s lavatories, as usual.”

“Oh no, you misunderstand me, I do follow you into the men’s bathroom, I just leave you the privacy of the stall. Although I’m giving that second thoughts now.”

Mycroft fell silent as the shower’s warm jets hit his back and sides. This is unacceptable, this is unacceptable… the phrase repeated itself in his head until his temporarily-shocked brain came up with a solution.

“How about you sweep the men’s loo before I go in, and then wait outside for me?”

Hermione groaned and the foaming bubbles disappeared under one of the water jets, her curves becoming more apparent as the water carried the bubbles down her body.

“You’re just making my job more difficult. You should just forget I’m there like you did before.”

“That’s going to be a tad difficult now that I do know. Contrary to my dear brother, I cannot just delete information from my brain.”

“He does that?” she asked and continued when she got no answer. “Oh, alright. Don’t be so uptight about it. But I’m not giving up the shower though, it’s glorious.”

Mycroft smirked and rinsed himself off. He just negotiated a stalker out of his loo and a naked woman into his shower. Not so bad for someone who hadn’t even had his first cup of coffee yet.

 

OoOoO

 

Hermione felt a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth as she observed Mycroft trying to find out where she was standing. He was getting good at spotting her if the conditions presented themselves. The disillusionment charm did not offer a cover as good as the invisibility cloak, but if she stood very still and used a silencing charm on herself, there was really nothing her charge could do to spot her, save throw a bag of flour around and then, of course, she’d stand out like a sore thumb, but he would look equally as stupid with his perfect three piece suit covered in the white powdery substance.

However, his careful scrutiny meant she couldn’t yet steal her share of the breakfast and her stomach was rumbling in protest. Mycroft finally relented when one of his minions brought him that morning’s newspapers and he was more concentrated on what was happening in the world than on spotting the invisible woman for his own personal satisfaction. She never would have guessed Mycroft had such a childish streak and she found it kind of endearing given his overall too-stern, too-serious personality.

“Damnit!” Mycroft spit out with half his toast before he shot out his phone and typed on it at an impressive speed given the man never seemed to hurry to do anything in his life.

He then walked briskly to the front door, shrugging into his long coat and snatching his umbrella out of the stand y the door, Hermione not far behind with her stomach still protesting at the lack of incoming food. She slipped into the car just as Anthea slammed it closed on her bum startling a squeak out of her. If she didn’t know better, she would have thought the pretty assistant did that on purpose. Mycroft smirked as he stared at the each seat in turn, no doubt trying to locate her again, the man just couldn’t abide not knowing something so she flicked his ear and he opened his mouth to protest but Anthea appeared just then, taking her usual seat beside him.

The car ride was quiet, except for Anthea’s constant typing on her Blackberry and they were soon pulling over into a quaint little street, right in front of a small café called Speedy’s.

“You can wait here, Anthea,” Mycroft told his assistant who barely nodded in response, her nose hovering over her luminous screen.

Hermione scrambled forward to avoid another hit on her bruised bum as Mycroft exited the vehicle, but the tall man was holding his door just slightly longer than was strictly necessary. Such a gentleman, she thought, knowing she would have to scold him for being a standing target for longer than necessary. Mycroft walked over to a door marked 221B, Hermione shadowing his every step with her wand ready to be fired in one hand and her eyes roaming over the windows and rooftops all around. So many possibilities for a hitman to hide in the shadows here, unacceptable. She deployed a small shield at Mycroft’s back, just in case.

Once a chatty old lady opened them and Mycroft dismissed her, they entered a small dark hallway with stairs going up and a smaller set of stairs going down.

“Hermione, can you make yourself visible?” he whispered and so, she did.

Mycroft looked her up and down with a moue of distaste at her clothes. Apparently, long, heavy robes that looked like they belonged in a Victorian-era film were not to his taste.

“Can you make yourself more…” Hermione knew that face. He was trying to find an adjective that wouldn’t be too insulting.

“Up-to-date?” she offered and Mycroft nodded.

“I want to test my brother and this little game should bring him to boot,” he told her, staring up the stairs and then at her, his eyes widening just a fraction as Hermione morphed her clothes into an exact replica of Anthea’s, styling her hair and makeup the same way too.

Mycroft gave a sharp nod and they walked up the stairs, Hermione just a step behind his left shoulder.

The two men in the small flat did not seem overly happy to see them. The tall one in a threadbare bathrobe was obviously Mycroft’s brother, although they had nothing more in common than their impressive stature and their cold, calculating blue eyes. The other man was much shorter and homelier, sporting a kind smile as he tried to stay out of the way of the staring contest between the two Holmes brothers.

Sherlock Holmes finally decided to spare Hermione a glance and he seemed to freeze for a second before he looked at his brother again.

“Who is she?” he asked, and for some reason, that prompted the smaller man to pay her more attention too.

“None of your concern,” Mycroft said, waving a hand dismissively in her direction.

“But...she doesn’t make any sense. Why is she not making any sense?” Sherlock demanded.

“You can’t read her? But she’s not even-” the small man stopped as the tips of his ears turned red.

“Naked? No, she isn’t. Thank you for your brilliant observation, John.” Sherlock replied, his eyes never leaving her. His gaze was really disturbing, there was a spark of madness there.

Hermione cocked an eyebrow at the man called John, making him blush some more. Well, this was fun, even though she didn’t understand a word they were talking about.

“How about a wager, brother?” Mycroft said. “If you can’t guess who she is, you give up your case on the Binkley disappearance.”

“It was boring anyway, too much politics involved. And if I win?” Sherlock asked, finally turning his attention back to his brother.

“Then I’ll owe you one background-check and you won’t see me for two weeks.”

Sherlock hummed, his long fingers  scratching the stubble on his chin.

"I get three questions." Sherlock bartered.

"One." Mycroft countered.

"One," Sherlock seemed to agree. "And a lick."

Hermione hid her disgust, feeling like a slab of meat being sold at the market, but she trusted Mycroft somewhat not to let his little game become too distasteful.

"You can't just ask to lick people, Sherlock," John said in a tired voice that seemed to indicate it was not the first time he'd had this argument, as strange as that seemed, but his protest went completely ignored.

“Deal,” Mycroft said, extending his hand.

“Deal,” his brother agreed, shaking the proffered hand once before letting it fall and turning around her like a buzzard contemplating its next meal.

“Let's see,” Sherlock said, taking his former place right in front of her, his fingers crossing as he seemed to analyze her one piece at a time. “You’re dressed like an office employee, a personal assistant with clothing as impeccable as Mycroft’s and with assorted colours at that, so that would seem to be the obvious answer, except you’re lacking the blackberry all his previous assistants had and you’re wearing the clothes like a costume, not like you’re used to them. It’s a facade.”

Sherlock tilted his head, then looked her up and down, from head to shoulders, ignoring her face.

“You hold yourself like a soldier,” he said, glancing at his flatmate, who looked her over with a surprised expression and nodded once while Hermione tried too late to relax her stiff posture. “But you have neither the typical height or built of a highly trained soldier. Of course, you could be an army surgeon like my friend John here. However you’re standing just one step behind Mycroft’s blind spot, the way a bodyguard would. A bodyguard in an office employee’s clothes… that could work as a subterfuge of course.”

Then Sherlock approached and took her hands, pulling them towards him the palms up. He studied the both of them and let go of her left hand, one of his fingers ghosting over the calluses and scars of her right hand. He pulled on her index finger and brought it up to his mouth, giving it a lick. He let go of that hand too and closed his eyes.

“No trace of gunpowder, faint traces of...wood polish?” Sherlock opened his eyes, cocking one eybrow ridiculously high as if this was the last thing he had expected. “Mycroft, I hope you didn’t dress up your housekeeper to play a prank on me.”

Mycroft gave him a disparaging look and kept his peace, observing his brother’s guessing game play out.

“But that smell,” he inhaled deeply in her direction and then Mycroft’s. “Same soap, same shampoo. Her hair is still a bit damp, which means she would have been taking her shower at about the same time you usually take yours, you’re using the same soap and shampoo and you came together, no need for a picture to get the meaning across. Is this your girlfriend, dear brother? That would indeed be most unexpected. So which is it: your bodyguard or your girlfriend?”

“Not his assistant, then?” John asked.

“No, That’s a decoy. Too obvious at first glance but lacking in the details,” Sherlock said dismissing him.

“And I have one question to solve this little mystery and win the game. I could just ask you if you are his bodyguard and process by elimination for my final answer. But where would be the fun in that? I want to know more than just that and I can then use the background check Mycroft will owe me. So my question is: what is your name?”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft growled, a clear warning in his voice.

Hermione took a step forward, catching Mycroft’s elbow to stop him from poking his umbrella through his brother’s chest. He glanced at her, clearly unsure if he could let her give Sherlock her real name.

“It’s alright, Mycroft,” she said soothingly. “Even if he makes you search for information on me, you won’t be able to give him much.”

She looked at Sherlock, smirking: “My name is Hermione Granger and a fat lot of good that’ll do you.”

And it was true. There would be the usual paper trail of legal muggle documents up until her eleventh birthday and then, nothing. A ghost living in another world that was unreachable for muggles.

“Interesting,” Sherlock said, probably to himself. “London accent, probably brought up in the suburbs. Not much information to be found about you would either mean you’re a very dull person or a very ‘interesting’ one. I’m going with the latter, so you probably have a very high-profile in the government or secret services and that may be where Mycroft and you met.”

Sherlock paced for a minute as he continued to think out loud:

“She uses your first name. I’ve never heard any of your employees call you that. And you brought her here, into my flat. That means you trust her more than your usual entourage that you leave downstairs. That would be just like you, using the unlikelihood of you actually having a girlfriend to use her for one of your games.”

“So that’s your answer, then?” Mycroft asked, his face reflecting none of the glee she was certain he felt.

“Yes. She’s your girlfriend,” Sherlock replied with a smug look.

“How you deceive me, brother,” Mycroft said. “So, as agreed, you will please leave the Binkley case well alone. I don’t need you poking your nose in that snake’s nest.”

Hermione startled at his statement. Was that the reason Mycroft had been sent a deadly snake in the middle of the night? Was he himself mixed up in that case? Hermione had had a hard time finding out how they had managed to sneak in a deadly snake into Mycroft’s highly secure chambers, doing it in this place would be a piece of cake.

“I don’t believe you,” his brother said, trying to catch Mycroft’s wrist but Hermione reflexively batted it away with the flat of her hand.

A bit too sharply if Sherlock’s vocal complaint was anything to go by. Mycroft gave him a smug expression.

“She is my bodyguard, Sherlock. I am not in the habit of lying for our games. You simply overlooked the degree of...devotion a bodyguard can have for its charge and the degree of trust that earns her in return. Don’t be a sore loser and keep your end of the bargain.”

Sherlock looked at her and she confirmed this proclamation, although she was surprised about his opinion in the matter. His charges were usually more annoyed than anything else to have her clinging to them like an invisible shadow, and she thought Mycroft was no different, especially after his indignation in the shower this morning.

They closed the door behind them, Hermione just able to catch John’s squeaky:

“What? Even under the shower?”

They descended the stairs, Hermione at her usual spot behind, one step behind him.

“Thank you,” Mycroft said without turning around, used as he was by now to just speak to her as if she was invisible. “My brother can be a bit stubborn and hates to abandon a case but he can never resist an interesting puzzle.”

“You know that was a bit of a cheat,” Hermione replied.

“It was for a good cause. I did not break any of our rules for this game. He just doesn’t know there are more rules than he’s aware off.”

Hermione couldn’t help but chuckle at his devious logic. Mycroft would have made a formidable Slytherin. She let herself become invisible once more, and conjured a shield just as Mycroft exited. They had barely taken two steps into the street when a staccato of a heavy firearm and screeching tires thundered in the small street. Their own car was too far to hope for an escape, and her shield had been shattered under the heavy impacts, making her visible again as her concentration wavered.

Hermione did the only thing she could still do to protect her charge and threw Mycroft on the ground, covering him as best she could with her body and summoned another shield just as another burst from a machine gun erupted followed by isolated shots from a greater distance. Hermione just hoped some of the shooters were on their side or she would end up receiving more bullets than she could stop. She panted when her second shield gave up. Magical shields that protected against physical damage were incredibly hard to keep up as they sucked up a huge amount of her energy. She used the opportunity of a reprieve in the heavy shooting and the disappearance of the car around the corner to push Mycroft back against the door of 221B, banging on the wooden surface until the door was suddenly wrenched open by a panting Sherlock. Mycroft stumbled in as he lost his balance and Hermione lost her wand and she tried to steady him. She cursed like a sailor but hurried after him, slamming the door shut with a kick and slumping against the door. She stared at the faces around her, frustrated that she couldn’t find the one she was supposed to protect.

“Mycroft?” she asked, her eyes finding him as stood taller, having smoothly pocketed her wand.

She smiled in appreciation and he smiled back, before they were interrupted by someone clearing their throat to make their presence known.

“Oh dear,” the old lady that had opened them the first time around said, pointing at Hermione.

Apparently, that was all she needed to start feeling the pain blossoming out from her shoulder and she looked down to see the small gaping hole through her charcoal-grey suit and the spreading stain turning her white blouse a bright shade of red.

“Stupid bullets. They’re always so bloody messy,” she growled. “Can we get back to the car?”

What she really wanted was to use Mycroft’s chimney to floo to Kingsley’s office, or at least for some privacy to send a patronus requesting a mediwizard’s presence. Mycroft didn’t need to answer though as they heard stray bullets still whizzing about.

“Up she goes, then,” John intervened with a more authoritative voice than she would have given him credit for.

Sherlock had said he was- something medical… in the army… something. Damn, loss of blood...focus...pain...focus… Hermione pushed away the hands trying to help her up and untangled her wobbly limbs to stand on her own two feet, thank you very much, before stomping heavily up the stairs.

 

OoOoO

 

“Well…” John Watson said, a bit miffed at having his help so rudely refused.

Mycroft knew the ex-soldier liked playing the knight in shining armour, it was in his nature, and he fought the smugness from creeping onto his face. Hermione was not a feeble woman to be rescued and he greatly admired that. Still, he remained at her back as she made her way up the stairs with difficult, rasping breaths. It wouldn’t do to add to her injuries by having her stumble all the way back down.

The door to his brother’s flat had been left open so she stumbled in and crashed on the couch, the last of her strength finally abandoning her as she passed out. It was probably for the best. Extracting the bullet was going to be excruciating since the good Dr Watson did not keep any kind of painkillers in the apartment. Living with an ex-junkie, he hadn’t wanted to tempt the devil.

John ordered Sherlock to fetch his doctor’s bag and ripped Hermione’s clothes away from the wound. Her bra strap had actually been shot clean in the middle. He looked at Mycroft suspiciously.

“What kind of bodyguard doesn’t wear any body-armor?” he asked.

“The best kind,” Mycroft answered, doing his best to remain impassive as he looked at the blood seeping out the the dark bullet wound.

His stomach lurched. It was much worse looking at a bullet wound when it had been one meant for him. He knew he should actually be riddled with bullets, and Hermione too, given the number of impacts he had heard around them, so she must have used some kind of magic to deflect them all. That was going to be a bit difficult to explain if anyone looked too closely at the crime scene. Sherlock dropped the bag next to John and loomed over them to look at the wound with interest. His brother had strange interests, to say the least.

“What’s that?” Sherlock asked pointing at the top of her forearm where raised red lines were just barely visible.

John tugged her sleeve down and Mycroft was too curious himself to stop him from doing it. He read MUD but knew the carved letter continued further down her arm.

“If you’re quite done staring, boys,” Hermione voice rasped.

Damn, she was awake. Mycroft would have prefered her to be unconscious for the next part.

“Right,” John said , wearing his somber doctor face again and slapping on a pair of rubber gloves.

“Bite on this,” he advised, shoving something leather in her mouth before digging in her wound with a pair of tweezers.

Hermione barely made a sound as John cleaned the debris from her wound but beads of sweat rolled down her face and she wore a fierce scowl that would have curdled milk in a second. Finally, John declared she had been lucky: the bone had not touched any bones and he had gotten the debris out but he was a bit perplexed that the bullet was whole and had not gone through her all the way.

“Don’t stitch it,” Hermione ordered. “Just slap a dressing on so I don’t bleed out and I’ll have it sorted later.”

John looked to Mycroft and he nodded. Hermione probably had some way to magic the wound away.

“Sir?” came Anthea’s voice from behind them. “Your car is ready. Team Echo and Jigsaw are cleaning things up.”

“Thank you, Anthea. We’ll be leaving shortly,” he replied curtly. “Stay behind to sort things out.”

No one missed the curious glance Mycroft’s assistant gave Hermione as she left, nor the similarity between their two outfits.

Mycroft pulled Hermione up by her good arm, thanked the doctor and ignored his brother as he left.  He tried not to be too overbearing in helping his bodyguard down the stairs. He wasn’t sure about the social protocol involved when your bodyguard took a bullet for you and would be relieved when she got herself in one piece again. However, she almost tripped on her way down and Mycroft decided to ignore her protests as she threatened to turn him into a toad if he didn’t put her back down this instant. But without her wand, the very one he could feel in his trousers’ pocket, her threats were as ominous as a kitten’s angry hisses, so in one swift motion, he had her in his arms and they were soon out on the sidewalk.

There were bullets and bullet cases everywhere. Thankfully, his car was armored, and although it was a little battered, it was still in perfect working order. He opened the door and finally let Hermione down so she could enter by herself. She seemed too tired to do anything else but slump back in Anthea's seat and he watched her anxiously as the car drove away.

"Don't make that face, Mycroft. It doesn't suit you," she said. Everything she said always caught him off guard, and it always made him feel better nowaday, even though it might have angered him a week ago.

"We should be back to the mansion soon. I'll reschedule my appointments for the day," he offered.

Two assassination attempts in as many days and he had no doubt they would have been successful if not for Hermione. Even for someone in his position, that was quite a lot so he wasn't going anywhere without her in the near future. Actually, he might even try to get her to stay in his service if he could afford it, although he didn't know what her currency was. Some people were brought with gold, others with favors and more still with promises of freedom or protection, or his silence concerning their dirty little secrets. He couldn't see Hermione wanting for any of these though.

"Reschedule? Don't be ridiculous," she said, wincing and holding her wound when the car hit a pothole in the road. "I'll be as good as new in an hour or so."

"Really?" he asked and he hated not knowing if it was a real possibility with magic or if she was pulling his leg, but she merely smiled enigmatically and he was no closer to the truth.

"I almost forgot...here." Mycroft told her, digging in his pocket to hand her wand over. As far as he could tell, the thing was just a pretty stick, but her eyes positively twinkled at the sight of it and she slid the wand in her sleeve where it disappeared from view. However, he had no doubt she could whip it out in a second if necessary.

“Not turning me into a toad, then?” he asked now that the kitten had its claws back.

She seemed to think on it but shook her head.

“No. I can definitely imagine Kingsley disagreeing with doing such a thing. He’s a bit scary when he gets in a snit.”

The only Kingsley Mycroft knew of was Kingsley Shacklebolt, the magical world’s equivalent of their Prime Minister who was just as intimidating as a grizzly bear too, and here she was talking about the man as if he was a mild nuisance she had to put up with. That would be just like her, of course. She seemed to have no care about social proprieties and it should annoy him to no end, but oddly enough, he found it refreshing. It would be best if he kept her out of sight of the Queen though, She wouldn’t find it endearing at all.

“You know him well? The Minister for Magic?” he asked, wondering just when he had gotten so chatty, but in this case, it was the only way he had to get information on her.

That and the fact that she was usually invisible. Somehow, seeing her loosed his tongue.

“Kingsley? Yes, we thought in the war together… You know about the last wizarding war, I imagine, given your position?” she asked cocking her head.

Mycroft nodded, remembering the briefing he had gotten from the magical Minister when he had been appointed new Liaison to the Magical World on top of all his other duties. It had explained a lot of inconsistencies he had encountered in the previous years: a formidable rise in murders, disappearances and punctual amnesias. But that was over twelve years ago and Hermione couldn’t be over thirty… Well, that certainly explained a lot about her personality and background.

The car crawled to a stop but Hermione held his arm when he reached for the door.

“There could be another ambush,” she said, leaning over him to look out the tinted window on his side.

“Not here, too much security detail in the perimeter,” he replied, pushing the door open and stepping out.

By the time he turned to lend Hermione a hand, she was already half-out herself with her wand pointed at him. He recoiled reflexively and she chuckled.

“It’s just a shield, don’t worry. You can’t feel or see it.”

“Is it what you used in Baker Street?”

“At your brother’s? Yes. But it’s tiring to keep up, so if you could…” she waved in the direction of the front porch.

Mycroft lead her in and in front of the chimney she had appeared through in what seemed a lifetime ago.

“Will you be leaving through here?” he asked, wondering if he should call the butler to light a fire first.

“Hell, no,” she replied blasting the fireplace to life with blazing flames before slouching in the couch and holding her shoulder. “If I use the floo, I’ll pass out from being spinned around before I even get to Kingsley’s office.”

Instead she waved her wand a couple of times, muttered a strange phrase and a brilliant translucent cat jumped out of her wand. It bounded around them, came to sniff the hem of his trousers before standing to attention in front of Hermione. She talked to it and it ran off and disappeared.

“Messenger,” Hermione told him so he must have looked like he needed an explication. “I used to have an otter as a kid, but I prefer this one.”

Probably a story there, Mycroft thought, seeing how sad she looked, but he didn’t feel like digging in her personal life anymore than he had already would be well received. He settled on the couch next to her and ten minutes later, the flames lighting the room turned green. A man in lime-green clothes stepped out and shook the soot out of his silver blond hair. The man spotted them and Mycroft got up to greet him properly. He introduced himself as Healer Draco Malfoy and he seemed to hesitate upon seeing his bodyguard slumped in the couch.

“Draco,” Hermione said, venom dripping from each syllable.

Mycroft marvelled that she managed to say the man’s name as if it was an insult in itself. She would do quite well in politics with such a talent.

“Granger,” he replied, looking unsure as he kneeled in front of the couch to have a better view of her wound. He took off the temporary dressing Dr Watson had applied and wrinkled his nose when the blood started pooling in the dip of her shoulder blade again.

“Oh, come on, Draco,”  she said pulling down the sleeve of her blouse to expose her lacerated arm, the word MUDBLOOD burning red in stark contrast to her creamy skin. “It’s not the first time you see my dirty blood, is it?”

The doctor gritted his teeth and did something with his wand.

“The bullet has already been extracted?”

“Yes, muggles are good for something, you know.”

Mycroft watched their exchange as one would look at a particularly aggressive tennis match, his head snapping from one adversary to the next. But once again, the young man did not respond to her taunt and did another movement with his wand, chanting under his breath. He did another thing with his spell and gave her three small bottle.

“One blood-replenishing potion, drink it now. One pepper up to drink to take now if you intent to be resuming your duties today. And one Skele-grow dose, but only drink it at night if you can rest.”

“Yeah, I know the drill,” she snapped and took the bottle downing the first two which made steam come out of her ears and flush bright red for a second. She pocketed the last and glared at the doctor, who in turn just ignored her and closed his bag.

“Good-bye, Granger, Mr Holmes,” he said and left, not through the chimney but by disappearing right in front of his eyes with a loud bang.

Mycroft looked around, uncertain.

“He’s gone,” Hermione told him heaving a great sigh, still lounging in the couch with her head on the armrest.

Mycroft approached and studied her shoulder. The skin there was smooth as if there had not been a gaping hole just a few minutes ago. Mycroft couldn’t resist extending his index to trail it down its surface. Magic was truly amazing.

“So, you’re alright,” he asked.

“Yes, we can get on with your day if you’re ready. Sorry for the delay.”

Mycroft wanted to scoff at her excuse but she was already disappearing before his eyes and he could almost feel her presence, just one step behind his left shoulder, standing vigil. And, just as he had surmised earlier, it was harder to talk to her when he couldn’t see her.

Silent and powerful, always watching over him, Hermione was, in fact, more of a guardian angel than a mere bodyguard, or that’s what he would say if he felt inclined to wax poetic, which he never did.

  



	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the Kudos and comments! I'm glad you like the story so far and I really appreciate the support :)

 

Hermione downed the dose of Skele-grow and banished the empty phial, a grimace of disgust lingering on her face for several minutes at the terrible taste. Mycroft was already sound asleep, he had taken to snoring softly lately, knowing she was there and wouldn’t let anything happen to him and she was strangely comforted by that.

To be honest she didn’t expect another attack tonight. Even for a man like Mycroft, planning two attacks in a few hours interval was a bit overkill. Still, she set up wards around the bed and curled up in the oversized overstuffed armchair in the corner of the room.

She was awakened a few hours later, sweaty and disoriented, trying to pinpoint why she was alert and ready to hex. The wards… right. The wards had shocked her into wakefulness, something had disturbed them.

Apparently, that something was Mycroft, standing vaguely in front of her. She reholstered her wand.

“What’s wrong?” she asked him.

“You’re asking me?” he countered and Hermione wondered what she might have done to disturb his sleep. A nightmare? Unlikely, she hadn’t had any in a very long time. “Can you show yourself?”

Hermione did without a second thought. She didn’t really need to stay invisible while her charge slept but it just gave her an edge, an element of surprise if he ever was attacked in the middle of the night. Mycroft stared down at her and shook his head.

“As I thought, you’re sick,” he stated. “Get into bed.”

“M’not sick,” she protested. She was never sick. Never had a day off work in all her career as a matter of fact.

“You’re sweating, your breathing is erratic and your pupils are about as big as pinpricks although we’re in almost total darkness. Not to mention you’re swaying on your feet as we speak. Get. In. Bed,” he ordered with that voice he used on petulant generals who wanted to fire a missile for all the wrong reasons.

Hermione could feel it now, her body was not wholly in her control and that was bothersome. She instantly knew the culprit though.

“M’not sick,” she slurred. “Potion. For bones. Better soon. Go back to sleep.”

Mycroft glared at her.

“I can’t sleep when it sounds like you’re dying of heart failure over here.”

Hermione snorted. It was easier than thinking up something smart to say to make him go away and let her suffer in peace.

“Don’t make me carry you,” he warned.

“Don’t make me toad you,” she replied.

Mycroft scoffed, trapped her wrist in his hand and picked her up in his arms. In the end, Hermione didn’t even have the energy to protest and was asleep in his arms before he had even put her to bed beside him.

She slept like a baby and was awake well before him, disoriented for a moment when she found herself snuggle against her charge. This was taking bodyguard duty another notch up and that was a bit much, even for her. She slid off the bed and reapplied the disillusionment charm on herself. It was her fault this happened. She knew she was susceptible to react badly to that particular potion and Draco probably tried to poison her. Yes, blaming the Malfoy twat for something he didn’t do made her day brighter and she watched Mycroft sleep for the remaining hour before his alarm-clock coaxed him to a nice and easy waking-up.

She followed him in the shower and washed off the grittiness she still felt from the night’s sickness, watching in amusement as Mycroft tried to locate her again. She saw the exact moment he did since he could never hide the twinge of satisfaction from the corner of his eyes.

“Are you feeling better?” he asked looking in her general direction, if a bit lower than he should while he lathered soap on his arms and chest.

“I am,” she answered, eyeing the man. He seemed so at ease sharing his shower, she wondered if… She ended her invisibility charm and watched with amusement as Mycroft jumped back and tried to simultaneously hide himself and turn around.

“You know I can see you whether I am invisible or not,” she teased.

“I- I know,” he gasped. “Gosh, don’t go frightening me like that. You’ll give me a heart-attack.”

He turned around slowly.

“I know it’s not logical. I guess my brain can’t process that you’re there and can see me when you’re not visible. I guess it’s not much use playing coy now.”

“Not so much, no,” she smirked. “I know every line of your body, maybe even better than you do.”

Mycroft’s skin flushed, but it may be due to the hot streams of water, it was getting quite steamy in the shower.

“That hardly seems fair,” Mycroft said. “Maybe you should stay visible until breakfast.”

Hermione took a step towards him and he gulped. He would have probably taken a step back if the shower taps weren’t already digging in the small of his back.

“As your bodyguard,” she said, her voice low. “I  have to advise you against such a demand. I’m much more able to protect you whilst being invisible, as you’ve already seen.”

She brushed past him and exited the shower to wand herself dry.

 

OoOoO

 

Mycroft stayed in the shower for five more minutes after Hermione had left to get his breathing back under control. That woman was going to be the death of him, startling him naked like that. He didn’t see her as he got out to dry and clothe himself but assumed she was nearby, as always was.

At breakfast, he stared at the empty room once the maid had left his meal on the table. He hesitates. His bodyguard invades his thoughts too much, too often, and caring is not an advantage. She’s a bodyguard for heaven’s sake. She could die, she could reject his budding affection, he would have his heart broken one way or another. He shouldn’t care. But he did.

“I think the table is more than long enough to accommodate you, if you care to join me,” he murmured behind his cup of tea in case his house staff was nearby or, God forbid, spying on him.

She didn’t answer but he felt the ghost of her hand squeeze his shoulder and he chair to his left scrape ever so lightly on the floor. Then, he witnessed for the first time the food going missing, just small portions, a little here, a little there. He’d never even considered exactly how she fed herself before and had just assumed she could do it by magic. Maybe he should stop assuming where Hermione was concerned.

He considered the situation he had gotten himself into, having this woman at his side around the clock, sharing his bed, his shower, having her at the breakfast table. It all seemed so...domestic and yet the idea was not as displeasing as he would once have thought. He shook his head, pushing away from the table. He definitely did not have the luxury of time to go entertaining such ideas.

In the car, Anthea briefed him on the day’s meetings.

“And tonight, you have dinner with ambassador Guinevro at the Four Season’s, but given the latest attempts against you, I would advise you to cancel or relocate the meeting. We can sweep the place and have security placed outside but it will be far from sufficient to guarantee your safety.”

“You know very well that upstart peacock would take it as a personal insult and create more trouble between our countries than necessary,” Mycroft told her.

He felt a squeeze on his knee and saw a slight blur in the seat in front of him. She was willing to go nonetheless but it would be hazardous even for his invisible bodyguard to keep her cover in a busy restaurant where she could get knocked around by the patrons and waiters.

“A date,” Mycroft said. “Guinevro will be accompanied by his young fiancée I imagine?”

Anthea nodded, looking puzzled.

“Then he can’t possibly be offended if I bring my own date,” Mycroft concluded, looking smugly satisfied.

“Would you like me to contact one of our female security detail or do you have someone else in mind?” Anthea asked.

“I have the perfect candidate for such a mission,” he answered with a smile directed at the seat facing him. “Have the necessary accessories sent to the mansion before then.”

Anthea gave Mycroft a knowing smirk.

“I believe I can guess the size,” she told him. “I’ll make sure her shoulders are covered.”

Mycroft frowned at his assistant. And here he thought he was being so discreet and clever. But then again, he only hired the best and Anthea proved his point.

 

OoOoO

 

Hermione slipped on the dress Mycroft’s assistant had laid out for her. It was a perfect fit and went perfectly with the accessories she had left for her too along with a little note hidden in the clutch bag that asked her to make sure Mycroft enjoyed the evening out, even if it was for work.

Hermione chuckled at the woman trying to play matchmakers and set the note aflame with a flick of her fingers. She didn’t like being manipulated.

Mycroft strode out of his walk-in dressing, dressed even more smartly than his everyday three piece suits if although she wouldn’t have thought that possible. He stared at her for a few seconds and she felt like squirming under his gaze. She was a brilliant researcher and a damn good bodyguard, but she wasn’t as confident in her skills at being a date, albeit a fake one.

“I hope Anthea got it right?” she asked, needing to fill the silence.

“Yes. Yes, of course. She always does everything perfectly. Except,” Mycroft opened a top drawer in one of the many cupboards of his dressing and came back out holding a velvet lined box. “Here,” he said, walking behind her and pushing her hair aside to clasp shut a necklace. She looked down at it, seeing how the light caught the small white pearls. Hermione turned to show him the result and raised a questioning eyebrow.

“Mummy’s,” he explained. “She would be so happy to see it finally out of its box.”

“Mummy?” she asked, fighting a grin.

“Mummy,” he confirmed sternly. “And don’t you dare call her anything else if you ever meet her unless you wish to be sat down for a very long and very dull lecture. Even Sherlock hasn’t tried that for a while and he’s rather stubborn. Well,” he said, offering his arm. “Shall we go.”

Hermione felt strange having Mycroft be the perfect gentleman for her: offering his arm, holding the doors open, pulling her chair out, praising her as he introduced her to their dinner guests and making sure she didn’t need for anything, not even interesting conversation. She would almost have forgotten she was on bodyguard duty and wished this was actually a real date because she’d never enjoyed herself quite as much before, especially not for such a formal dinner.

The night ended without a hitch. No assassination attempts planned for today, it seemed and they were safely ensconced in Mycroft’s armored car before Hermione allowed herself to relax completely.

“You did well,” Mycroft said.

Hermione hummed as she watched out at the passing scenery, feeling a little melancholy that her night as Cinderella was already at a close.

“I enjoyed myself,” Mycroft continued, resting his hand lightly on her knee. “Immensely.”

Hermione watched Mycroft, then. Really watched him. Not over his shoulder or at their surroundings, not checking for immediate threats or for the red dot of a laser beam, but him. He held his gaze steadily on her, unblinking, and she felt herself blush, and then she saw the tip of his tongue dart out  quickly to pass over his bottom lip and she knew. He wanted her, not the bodyguard, but the woman and she leaned ever so slightly into him.

That was the only signal Mycroft needed before he cupped her face in his hands, bringing her closer to his own until their lips met. He took his time at first and she enjoyed the firmness of his lips and the confidence of his every move, parting her own lips at once when he prodded further, wanting to taste her.

His hands slid down to her waist and her own were trying to find a way through his too many layers of clothes as their kiss deepened. She felt dizzy when he finally pulled back, not realising she had needed to catch her breath. Mycroft had that smug little quirk of his lips he sported whenever he bested someone. The ass.

They had arrived without her realising though, which worried her.

"Maybe this isn't such a good idea," she said, biting her swollen lip and straightening the hem of her dress that had ridden up her thighs at some point. "I can't protect you if I'm...distracted."

"Uhmm..." Mycroft moaned, too busy to articulate as he nuzzled her neck, smelling in her scent deeply and depositing small kisses there. "I'm giving you the day off."

Hermione laughed, enjoying the small touches of his lips and fingers over her sensitive skin.

"You can't do that. You're not my employer," she pointed out. "Which is a good thing for you or this would be a blatant case of sexual harassment."

"I'd risk it," he told her before opening the door and helping her out, leading her into his home and to his room. They were already half undressed by the time they made it to the bed. Both too eager and wanting to take their time because they were both too dedicated to their work to have such an occasion present itself very often. But now that they did, well...

 

OoOoO

 

Mycroft pinned Hermione to his bed under his weight, holding down her arms as he trailed kisses on every bit of exposed skin his eyes laid upon. He'd be lying if he told her he hadn't thought of doing just that to her at least a couple of times before now but he also hadn't told her the night before than no one had shared his bed for the last eight years or so.

Not that he thought she would mind, he thought as she moaned when he pushed her gown further down and caressed her breast before teasing each nipple with his tongue, or that she would mock him. No, Hermione and he were too much alike, and he trusted her, probably more than anyone else. That would happen when somebody saved your life. Twice.

Mycroft impatiently tore off his shirt, ignoring the few remaining buttons Hermione had missed as they ripped through the material and threw it on the ground. Then he pulled her dress the rest of the way down before it joined his shirt on the floor and he was kissing her again, his hands roaming over her body and hers over his as they tangled their limbs trying to get the few remaining pieces of clothing off.

Mycroft froze as he felt the wooden length of her wand stuck against her thigh in what resembled a gun holster.

“Sorry about that,” she said as she unclasped it and hung it above them on one of the bed’s post.

Still close enough that she can protect me,  he thought which sent him in a frenzy of kisses, nips and licks all over her body. He couldn’t get enough of her moans of pleasure.

They were finally naked and they took a moment to just stare at one another, which was strange since they had seen each other this way before, but he found it very different when she was laying panting in his bed with her eyes dark and hungry. He reached over to his bedside table in search of a condom when he had a terrible intuition. He took out the box and looked at the expiration date, not able to resist a derisive snort from escaping him. His cock making its disappointment known by straining even more

Hermione knocked the old box out of his hand, apparently understanding his dilemma and reached for her wand.

“Trust me?” she said.

“Do you even need to ask?” he replied, before she pointed it at herself and then at him.

He could get used to magic, he thought as he felt only a slight tingle along his groin before it disappeared. He let her replace the wand so she would not need to worry about it and was down on her once more, lavishing her middle with his tongue, relishing her shivers, her squirming and her soft cries.

“Mycroft,” she begged huskily, and he was all too ready to refuse her any longer.

He scooted up further up the bed, her legs wrapping around his waist and bringing him closer still before his cock slid in her. So warm, so wet. He groaned, letting himself not think too much for once. She wanted him as much as he wanted her. Nothing like the casual encounters he’d sometimes had when he was younger and had given up altogether. This was so good, so much better.

Mycroft cursed, it was too good, he would not last long at this rate, but then Hermione flipped him over, he didn’t know how but he liked to think it was magic because the alternative of the slight woman being physically stronger than him was a little confusing. She rode him, slowing their pace, teasing his senses and obliterating his capacity to think until he couldn’t take it any longer and threw her back again. She squealed in delight and they were coming together again and again until Hermione cried out his name, which in turn undid him completely and he knew without a doubt this wasn’t just sex. He cared.

 

The next morning, he rolled over to find his bed empty and cold. He reached his arm to the other side of the bed but still no sign of Hermione. Did she have regrets? Had she left? That seemed unlikely. He turned the alarm-clock of since it wasn’t due to go off for another ten minutes and walked to the bathroom but she wasn’t there either so he started his usual morning ritual until he saw her blurry invisible form beneath bubbles hanging up in midair.

“Hermione?” he asked uncertainly.

How did you start a conversation with your lover in the morning when said lover was invisible. Maybe there was a handbook he could find about this particular problem. Until then, he only had blunt honesty to deal with it.

“Why are you invisible?” he prodded.

She sighed and the bubbled washed off, sliding slowly down her curves. It was such an enticing sight that his cock twitched, ready for more after having slept like a log last night’s exertion.

“We already talked about this,” she answered. “I can protect you better this way.”

Mycroft grimaced. The chances of having an assassination attempt in his own quarters were very negligible. The snake had been a fluke, really, but he knew she would hold it against him. He approached the blurry form standing in front of him and hugged her against him, glad he had estimated the distance correctly.

“I don’t care,” he said. “Or rather, I care too much. About you.”

There, he’d said it. Now, she could reject him and break his heart and he would try to resume not caring anymore and get on with his miserable, but highly useful, life. He wished he could see her. See her expression at least, to give him some inkling of what to expect. And then, she blushed back into existence. Literally, and it was probably the sweetest thing he had seen and answer enough to his doubts. He looked down at her naked form snuggled against his own and kissed her again.

 

OoOoO

 

Hermione broke off their kiss when she felt Mycroft hardening at an alarming rate against her stomach. All this blood rushing down so suddenly couldn’t be good for a man his age. She chuckled and pushed him back.

“You don’t have time for that,” she teased. “You’ll be late. And you’re never late.”

“I’ll skip breakfast,” he said, trying to catch her lips again.

“No, you won’t. You’re cranky when you don’t eat and you have to be at Buckingham this morning. It wouldn’t do to be snappish with her Majesty.”

Mentioning the Queen cured him of his erection, at least and she slithered past him to get ready, staying visible until they left his bedroom as he’d asked. Maybe this could work. She could be his bodyguard and his lover, couldn’t she? But she knew Kingsley wouldn’t approve. In fact, he’d have her dismissed and replaced in a heartbeat and she didn’t trust anyone else to keep Mycroft safe. Not as safe as he would be with her.

The day droned on and was uneventful so far but Hermione was on high alert. She had expected another attempt on Mycroft’s life by now since she was certain the snake and the shooting were ordered by the same person and had a link with the Binkley disappearance Mycroft had been so adamant his brother did not investigate and the oily ambassador they had dined with last night as well as his brief visit to Buckingham Palace. However, she couldn’t see the big picture, she missed too much data and she didn’t really need to know to protect Mycroft so she didn’t ask. She was already doing everything that could humanely be done to ensure he remained alive and whole. But the lack of action still worried her. Mycroft had noticed and told her his agents were already doing their best to stop the culprit though so there was nothing more to be done.

Anthea informed Mycroft a body had turned up in the Thames and might be the missing daughter of Binkley. They changed direction, heading straight for St Bart’s morgue while Anthea rescheduled his remaining meeting. Hermione hated this place, so many windows were as many possibilities for a sharp-shooter to hide so out came her physical shield when they stepped out.

Mycroft must have sensed her tension and managed to squeeze her free hand lightly without being too obvious. There were too many people inside, which was going to be problematic for Hermione to shadow Mycroft. She pulled his sleeve slightly towards a door marked “Supply Room” and he seemed to understand what she wanted, following her lead after sending Anthea back to the car.

She cancelled her invisibility charm and they shared a small smile.

“Just a minute,” she warned before morphing into Anthea’s clothes and hair once again. It was easier than trying to create them from her imagination alone.

“You know, if Anthea sees you again disguised as her, she might think I have a weird fetish,” he chuckled opening the door and coming face to face with his brother and his flatmate.

Mycroft’s face fell as Sherlock’s positively glowed with malice.

“Is this what people call a quickie, John?” he said addressing his friend but staring at his brother.

“I hope not. Miss Granger is still recovering from being shot. How is your shoulder, by the way?” the doctor asked her .

“Perfectly alright,” she answered, standing stiffly. “And please get your mind out of the gutter.”

“What are you doing here anyway, Sherlock?” Mycroft asked next.

“Why, visiting a friend, of course,” his brother answered, his eyes dancing between her and Mycroft.

“Really, Sherlock? You expect me to believe such drivel?”

“About as much as I believe you’re not shagging your bodyguard.”

Mycroft sneered and walked past him, Hermione at his heels. The two idiots were following them, evidently going to the morgue too.

“I thought we agreed you were not working on this case?” Mycroft told his brother.

“Yes, but since you cheated, I won’t need to feel guilty about not holding my end of the bargain. Molly called about an interesting body and now, thanks to you, I know exactly who it is.”

“You’ll regret involving yourself,” Mycroft warned and turned to the body the woman named Molly Hooper had just uncovered from the slab.

The bloated corpse lying under the stark light might have been a pretty young woman once but it was really hard to tell. It had already been autopsied, and Molly rolled a table closer to the slab with several jars containing viscous fluids. Sherlock took one and turned it around in his hands, holding it to the light before finally taking off the lid and taking a whiff.

“Chocolate?” He asked Molly.

She nodded, a smile breaking across her face.

“Drowned in chocolate. I thought you’d enjoy it.”

“Pure or diluted?”

“I thought you’d ask so I had it analysed. Diluted with cream and alcohol.”

“So she was drowned in a chocolate fountain. Interesting.”

Hermione stared at the two nutjobs enjoying the gruesome death. They were perfect for each other. Mycroft was going through the other jars until he found one holding a USB flash drive, still a bit gooey from wherever it had been retrieved. He took it out and pocketed it, looking just a fraction less tense than he had been all day.

“I’ll be taking this,” he told the morgue employee, who was probably used to having evidence taken out of her hands by Mycroft because she didn’t so much as bat an eyelid.

“Is that why she was killed?” Sherlock asked before he could leave.

Mycroft nodded.

“So Binkley’s daughter had been the one smuggling information out of her father’s own office. And here I’d thought she had been kidnapped for ransom, but you knew all along, didn’t you, dear brother?”

Mycroft didn’t respond but his shoulders tensed again and he started out of the building as she followed dutifully, but Sherlock and his friends were right behind them.

“And who was she selling this information to?” Sherlock asked.

“You do not need to know,” Mycroft finally snapped, whirling on his brother. “You found your missing person, Sherlock. Congratulations, case closed. I expect I’ll read about it in the doctor’s blog although you’d be smart to leave some details out of this one, doctor. For all our sakes.”

“What’s on the flash drive, Mycroft?” Sherlock persisted.

“Goodness, Sherlock!” Mycroft exclaimed. “Can’t you just let it be? Why do you feel so entitled to know everything?”

“Because it’s my job,” he replied smoothly.

Mycroft scoffed and left, walking too fast for Hermione to follow without having to trot behind him, but Sherlock and John were following them anyway, apparently not satisfied with the lack of answers they had gotten. They were almost to their car in the parking lot when Sherlock once again thought he could snatch his brother’s wrist to confront him, forgetting the lesson Hermione had taught him last time he tried that and, like the last time, she batted his hand away swiftly with the flat of her hand.

The doctor stared at her with wide eyes.

“How did you… Your shoulder…” he was saying, holding his own as if he was feeling the pain she should have felt at such a brusque motion.

“Interesting,” Sherlock said, looming over her.

Mycroft pushed Hermione behind him, which was ridiculous. She was the bodyguard here.

“Back off, Sherlock,” Mycroft growled. “You’re-”

He never got to finish his sentence. A loud beep echoed from the car parked next to Mycroft’s armored black one and Hermione barely had time to cast the strongest shield she could before all hell broke loose. A car bomb! Hermione knew her shield couldn’t possibly stop all the heat and debris the bomb would throw their way. Yet, she was more worried about the deflagration because  the blast of air would hardly be slowed by her shield. Knowing it would hit her and because she was standing right behind Mycroft, she only had to wrap herself around him as best she could. Sherlock and John would have to manage on their own. She did what she could for them with her shield but they were not her charges after all.

Their group disappeared under the ball of fire and they would have been burnt to a crisp if it hadn't been for magic. Then, everything imploded outwards and they were sent flying every which way, Hermione barely managing to hold onto Mycroft and her wand before they hit a wall and crumpled down to the rough asphalt. Her head was pounding but she was still functional enough to assess her injuries. Cuts and bruises mainly, a few broken ribs from the impact against the wall where she had managed to cushion Mycroft and a thin metal shard that looked like a piece of a licence plate sticking out of her shin: not too bad, considering their proximity to the bomb and nothing life-threatening so she turned her attention to Mycroft, glad she had kept her grip on her wand.

A medical scan revealed a broken finger and several cuts. His suit was shredded but the injuries minimal except for his head. He had hit it at some point and he was unconscious but there was nothing much to be done except wait for him to wake up. She decided to check on Sherlock. He was Mycroft’s brother and, even if they didn’t seem to get along very well, Hermione knew Mycroft cared about him in his own way and would probably be quite upset if he died.

She found him not too far off. He was pinned to the ground with John on top of him. The smaller man, it seemed, had had the same instinct as her and had wrapped himself around Sherlock, sustaining the most injuries of the two. She recalled John had been in the army so maybe he had understood the ominous sound right before the bomb went off. Thankfully, like her and Mycroft, they had avoided burns and major injuries but John had a nasty twisted pole sticking out of his shoulder that had missed Sherlock’s face by an inch. It might not be life-threatening for John but it could seriously limit his mobility and he probably needed both arms since he was a surgeon.

Checking they were still unconscious, she vanished the metal bar, cleaned the wound and used the  strongest healing charm she knew, unsure it was good enough for his injury but knowing it would still be better than muggle surgery. She quickly returned to Mycroft’s side and slumped down by his side. She shouldn’t use her wand on herself to heal injuries she knew, as it often resulted in unwanted results, but it was damn tempting nonetheless.

However, muggle emergency response was on its way. Maybe just the leg then, so she could at least run away from their tender care if they tried to lock her in a hospital. She made quick work of it and  hid her wand in her hair, using it to bind it in a chignon and had just about enough time to curse at how exhausted she was when blurry figures hovered over her, asking if she was hurt.

“Bloody stupid question,” she bit out before fainting against Mycroft as the ringing in her ears became louder and louder.

 

OoOoO

 

John woke up feeling fantastic. He didn’t know where he was, and the man standing at the door in military khakis wouldn’t answer any of his questions.

Come on, John, he scolded himself, think like Sherlock.

So, he was obviously in a hospital bed but it lacked the usual hustle and bustle associated with hospitals. To be honest, John hadn’t really expected to wake up at all, and certainly not feeling in better health than he had for a very long time. All he had wanted was to protect Sherlock from the blast, die trying if he had to, and even that should have been a poor attempt given how close they had been standing to the bomb. It wasn’t making any sense. He needed Sherlock.

He hopped off the bed, looking for another hospital gown to cover his backside and jumped when he heard a familiar voice.

“What are you still doing here, John?” Sherlock asked.

John looked at him up and down. He too, was completely unharmed, save for a few cuts and bruises on what skin he could see with the hospital gown and the bathrobe he had somehow acquired.

“You look well,” John said knowing Sherlock would berate him for stating the obvious, but he didn’t.

“So do you,” Sherlock replied instead. “Good.”

“Good? A bloody miracle is what it is,” John exclaimed, getting more and more agitated the less he understood. “There shouldn’t even be enough of us left to be identified. We should be shredded, burnt, in pieces all over the place... and yet… I’ve never felt better! It’s bloody ridiculous is what it is, Sherlock!”

John was gesticulating his arms by now now a maniacal windmill and Sherlock suddenly caught his left arm, holding it still before bending it back and forth, up and down, staring at John’s face before pulling his gown off his arms.

“Sherlock! Godamnit!” John protested, pulling the sleeve of his gown back up with one hand and pushing Sherlock away with another. “What are you doing?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“It should be obvious,” he answered, staring into his eyes, like he always did when he was waiting for his poor ‘normal’ brain to catch up with his train of thought.

“Oh!” John said after a while, his mouth hanging open for a moment before he scrambled to tear his gown down.

There, on his shoulder where he’d been shot during his time in Afghanistan, there was...nothing. The scar tissue was gone. The pain was gone! That’s why he’d felt so much better. His head was spinning. This, he could explain even less than surviving the bomb.

“I- Sherlock...I don’t understand,” John said, not able to hold the whining from his voice.

Unfortunately, even Sherlock, the great consulting detective who always had an answer to everything, yes, even he was looking a bit stumped.

“There has to be a reasonable explanation,” Sherlock said, watching his shoulder, then touching it with a finger as if hoping he could poke through it to reveal his old scar.

John sat back on his bed, holding his head. This was crazy, of the kind of stuff you read about in dubious tabloids with titles like “My husband is a werewolf” and “Severed leg hops back to hospital”. Yes, “Ball of fire healed old war wound” definitely had its place right up there.

“John. John...JOHN!”

John looked up to see Sherlock’s worried face hovering in front of him.

“Come along, John. We have a mystery to solve.”

Yes, Sherlock could solve it, everything would make sense again and he’d another case to post on his blog. John hopped off the bed again, nodding at Sherlock. He had somehow managed to get rid of the guard posted at his door, nothing new there and that familiarity was reassuring. Sherlock had been in the bedroom right next to his so they checked the room following it and found Anthea, Mycroft’s real assistant, unconscious and sporting several bandages and casts. The next one was a man they didn’t know, unconscious also, his face burnt and cut badly but he wasn’t cuffed to the bed.

“Mycroft’s chauffeur,” Sherlock said and JOhn accepted it as truth.

The room after was Mycroft’s. He seemed to be sleeping and after checking he was, in fact, unhurt, Sherlock pressed them on, which is how they found Mycroft’s bodyguard, lying face down on her bed with her hands and legs tied down with padded cuffs. She was cursing like a sailor at a burly nurse who was trying to bandage the burns on her upper back with little success.

“Just leave it be, woman,” she snarled. “Untie me and get me to Mycroft! NOW!”

Impressive. She had a loud piercing voice for such a little woman. She struggled against the restraints again and the nurse scolded her, telling her she couldn’t do her job in these conditions, to which the bodyguard, Hermione Granger, he recalled, told her just where she could stuff her sodding job.

Sherlock cleared his throat and both women craned their necks to see the new arrivals. The nurse jumped off her stool and went on a rant saying she just could not work like this and stalked out of the room.

“Hello, Miss Granger,” Sherlock said, stepping in her line of sight. “How good to see you look so well.”

John approached looking at her back. She had burns, yes, but they were very minor considering the blast of the explosion. Still it was the most damage of the sort he had seen so far.

“Yes, you noticed that too, John? Given our respective places the moment the bomb went off, it’s quite logical that Miss Granger who was standing closest with her back to the rigged car would be most severely touched on her back and you, John who was facing the car with no one in front of you would have your eyebrows singed.”

“I- What?” John touched his face blindly, feeling for his eyebrows, which weren’t as silky as they should and his skin did feel a little tight and dry.

Sherlock was inspecting the woman’s back closely while she glowered at the wall in front of her.

“Uhm...cuts, bruises,” he hooked a finger under some stiff bandages that had been rolled tightly several times around her chest and the woman yelped.

“Sherlock,” John chided.

“Broken ribs,” Sherlock continued. “You should really stop struggling to free yourself, you’ll only hurt yourself more.”

“So untie me, Sherlock,” she said with a sickly sweet voice. “ Please?”

“No,” Sherlock took a chair and sat next to her so they could see each other easily, John following his example. “Not until you tell me how you did it.”

“What?” John and Hermione said at the same time. “Did she plant the bomb?”

“Of course not, John,” Sherlock scoffed in his best ‘you’re an idiot’ voice. “She saved us from the bomb. It’s the only possibility. There were only four of us and it wasn’t our doing: I would know if it was you and you would tell me if you did it anyway. It’s not Mycroft, I’ve known him my whole life,  so I would know if he could. So that leaves us this mysterious woman, who, by all accounts shouldn’t be a bodyguard but has been assigned the personal security of the most powerful man in Britain. Strange that, isn’t it?”

John considered this. It sounded mad, but as Sherlock liked to say:

“When you’ve eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however mad, must be the truth.”

He realised he’d quoted him out loud when Sherlock nodded.

“Precisely. So, Miss Granger, how did you do it?”

“Untie me,” she demanded angrily, kicking at the cuffs on her feet.

Their battle of wills continued for an hour. Sherlock demanding answers and her cursing at him. John had had to send the nurse away, telling her he was a doctor and would deal with her wounds but really, Sherlock being a Holmes was all that stopped her from calling security on them.

Sherlock poured himself a goblet of water slowly and deliberately in front of Hermione, sipping it slowly.

“You must be thirsty. I can give you water if you tell me how you did it.”

The woman chuckled, her voice raspy.

“You really think that would work on me?” she scoffed.

“No, I guess not,” he admitted. “You have been tortured before, haven’t you?” he asked, sliding a finger down the raised edges of the words carved into her arm. “What does ‘Mudblood’ mean? I imagine it’s a slur but I haven’t heard it before.”

She remained silent.

“Can’t blame me for trying, right?” Sherlock asked in what was fast becoming a one sided conversation.

John yawned. Sherlock usually got results and fairly quickly. He'd even turned the charm on, toothy smile and twinkling eyes, and nothing. He only made the woman more angry, if anything.

"What is the meaning of this?" someone finally asked, interrupting Sherlock's tedious interrogation.

It was Mycroft. He was staring daggers at his brother and, God, the man was frightening when he did that.

“Mycroft!” Sherlock greeted him, throwing his arms up in welcome. “Another Christmas miracle in the flesh!”

“It’s not nearly Christmas, Sherlock. You must’ve hit your head. Shouldn’t you be in bed?” Mycroft  said before narrowing his eyes. “I warned you not to involve yourself in this case.”

“Ah, well, don’t worry. It’s not that interesting anymore,” his brother answered, staring at the occupant of the room’s only bed.

John thought he would be spared the icepick-stare but after making sure with a glance that his bodyguard was not hurt, Mycroft turned on him.

"I have to say I'm surprised by you, Doctor Watson. Does you hippocratic oath mean so little to you?"

"She was refusing treatment, Mycroft. Don't blame John," Sherlock intervened before he could speak but to be truthful, yes, he was a little ashamed of leaving her in such an uncomfortable position.

Mycroft’s face soured and he brushed past them.

"Finally," she said. "Those two idiots have been grilling me for an hour and nobody would let me see you."

Mycroft unclasped the cuffs and helped her sit up. She groaned, holding her ribs with a grimace, but Mycroft Holmes was exceptionally careful and gentle with her. Sherlock might be in the right about the two of them having more than a professional relationship. John hadn't thought it possible coming from a Holmes, but seeing the usually icy man tuck back one of his bodyguard's curls behind her ear left little doubt to the imagination.

"It's alright. You needn't have worried, this is a safe facility." Mycroft told her soothingly, like John would to an angry kitten.

"Safe? Ha.'" she spat. "There's no where safe where you're concerned Mycroft Holmes.”

“So maybe you’ll have to stay by my side forever, then.” Mycroft almost whispered but not enough that he and no doubt Sherlock had heard him too..

“Oh, please,” Sherlock said, cutting through the woman’s startled laugh. “Save us from the sentiment.”

The detective ignored his brother’s glare and looked at the bodyguard’s shoulder, poking out of the too-big hospital gown. He looked gleefully at John for a second, then confronted the couple again.

“Will you look at that, John! Her shoulder looks much better...almost like she was never shot.”

John looked at her shoulder too. He knew exactly where she had been shot and exactly what her wound should look like by now, but her skin was as smooth as his own.

“Yes, quite amazing,” John joined in with a small grin, glad the pieces of the puzzle really were coming together. “Almost as miraculous as my bad shoulder healing all on its own after the explosion.”

He wheeled his shoulder in a wide swing and Mycroft’s eyebrows shot up before looking down at Hermione who was unashamedly hiding her face against his chest. It looked like she was blushing.

“He had a bloody pole sticking out his shoulder. I didn’t know he’d had an old injury there. I was kind of in a hurry.”

The three of them looked equally as surprised by her admission, until she pulled a stick from her hair, the kind women use to make their chignons, except thicker. Mycroft smiled like a cat that got the cream and that was just as terrifying as his icy stare. He knew, or rather guessed, that there was a significance to that stick but for the life of him, John didn’t understand, and by Sherlock’s befuddled look, neither did he.

“Memory spell?” Mycroft asked, and that didn’t make much more sense.

“I think it’s for the best,” she answered coolly, pointing the stick at Sherlock who was standing before her. “These two dolts have been too much of an annoyance already.”

“Mycroft?” Sherlock asked, losing his smug knowing look and looking as uncertain as he’d ever seen him before.

That, more than anything else that day, scared John and he tried to spring up from his chair to put himself between Sherlock and the stick but Hermione shot him, or that’s the impression he got at first as he was thrown back onto his chair and then immobilized. Looking down he saw ropes that moved like snakes, coiling around him and the chair, stopping him from moving completely because everytime he tried to wiggle free, the ropes tightened. Sherlock shook himself out of his stupor and was ready to strike her when he was shot by a brilliant red light and he was flung back against the wall, unmoving.

“What have you done to Sherlock?!” John bellowed, fighting against the ropes as he looked at Sherlock, willing him to open his eyes and stand up, but stopping when he had to gasp for breath. “What are you?”

“I’m sorry, John. I really am. But this is for the best,” she said pointing her wand at him.

“Mycroft?” John pleaded. “Why are you letting her do this to Sherlock? He’s your brother for God’s sake!”

Mycroft examined him as if he was a yet undiscovered shiny bug under a magnifying glass.

“She will not hurt you,” he assured him after a moment.

“Actually, I might have to, just a little,” the woman said. “His shoulder.”

Mycroft sighed, as if he was chagrined, but nodded.

“Mycroft! You can’t be serious!” John shouted, stopping abruptly when Hermione stared in his eyes.

She was doing something to him, to his mind. She was in his mind hearing his thoughts, looking at his memories, flitting from one to the other so fast she was asking him dizzy until she found once, a very boring and common one of him shaving bare-chested in the bathroom mirror. His scar, he realized, she was examining his shoulder scar.

“Ah, there it is,” she said, confirming what he had understood from her presence within him. “We’re lucky. He hardly ever looks at his scar so he won’t notice if the scar tissue isn’t all that similar.”

She then jabbed her stick at his shoulder and goddamnit, it hurt like a bitch and he bit his lip not to scream as blood poured forth. At least, it didn’t look like she was enjoying it. He couldn’t abide sick fucks who actually liked to inflict pain.

Thankfully, it was soon over and he closed his eyes to catch his breath, sweat rolling down his face. However, the pain was vanishing all too quickly now, and when he opened his eyes again, the woman was still holding her stick close to his wound but it was somehow healing his wound, slowly stiching it closed, until all that was left was a batch of old-looking scar tissue, much like it had been before. Except for the ever-present pain, the dull ache that was always lying in wait to make his hand tremble violently.

“Magic,” he thought and breathed out at the same time.

That’s all that made sense. All those things she could do, it was magic. And that stick was a wand like in the fairy tales with fairy godmothers and Merlin.

For the first time he had ever seen, the woman’s face broke out in a sweet smile that even reached her eyes and she nodded. She looked a lot less foreboding and dangerous that way, despite being so...unnatural.

“Sorry you have to forget about it,” she said and the next moment…

John woke up feeling fantastic. He didn’t know where he was, and the man standing at the door in military khakis wouldn’t answer any of his questions.

  
  
  
  



	3. Chapter 3

“Do you need to call your healer?” Mycroft asked her as he helped her into the car.

Her injuries had gotten worse, spending as much time as she did on her stomach. That had been even more painful than listening to Sherlock trying to worm information out of her. The nerve of the man, thinking she would just melt and be putty in his hands with that lopsided smile of his. He had really deserved a severe hexing. Too bad he was Mycroft’s brother or she would have: making his nose extra-large or his hair extra-greasy… maybe she would get the occasion to do it, someday, that would be nice.

“Healer?” Mycroft repeated, glancing at her, a worried crease digging a groove between his eyebrows. She smoothed it over with her thumb, then cupping his face as she looked into his eyes.

“Uhm, yeah… I think that would be for the best. Just… don’t go near windows or outside in the meantime, alright?” Hermione asked.

A snake, a shooting and a car-bomb. Seeing how things were escalating, she half-expected to see a nuclear missile or a dragon homing in on him with the next assassination attempt. But Mycroft nodded readily enough, holding her against him as the car sped towards the privacy of his mansion and rubbing circles absently on her hand.

“I won’t leave your side,” he promised, making her heart skip a beat, just as it had when he’d whispered to her in the hospital that he should keep her by his side forever, because Mycroft wasn’t the sort of man to say what he didn’t mean.

They hurried out of the car and to the relative safety of his home, Hermione casting her usual shield as they went even though it drained her almost completely of her strength. Once inside, she slumped into the sofa and Mycroft had to remind her to cast her messenger spell to call for a healer and light the chimney. Merlin, she was so tired, she’d never had such a long, eventful mission before. Maybe she should ask to be relieved from her duty and replaced by someone who wouldn’t make any rookie mistake or oversight protecting her charge due to fatigue. If that happened, she would never forgive herself. Or maybe she should just chug down a potion or two to get her back up on her two feet, even if it meant she’d pay for it later by having to sleep it off for a day or two. She smirked as she watched her Kneazle patronus disappear with her message to Kingsley. Maybe she should do both.

“Granger?” Draco Malfoy asked as he stepped out of the fireplace ten minutes later.

He wasn’t wearing his lime green robes today but carried his leather bag of potions. He must have been called on his day off and she hoped she had ruined his day. Draco looked over to the couch immediately and walked over to her side in a few strides. Yeah, just show off how tall you are, you great smarmy pompous git, she thought grumpily.

“Are you hurt again?” he asked and she just showed her bandages and muggle hospital gown with a dramatic flourish of her hand to prove he was an idiot just for asking. “This is too soon. Minister Shacklebolt is not happy.”

“So he sent you, again, just to punish me?” she asked.

“Don’t be a moron, Granger, it doesn’t suit you,” Draco muttered as he inspected her bandages with contempt. “He sent me because I am the best at what I do, and he will replace you. He was calling on Corner before I left.”

Michael Corner had been a Ravenclaw, just a year younger but she had gotten to know him better when she had resumed her seventh year and shared classes with him. Today, he too worked in the Department of Mysteries so he was a fellow Unspeakable although they did not work on the same projects.

“Michael? Well, I guess it could’ve been worse,” she replied, wincing when he undid whatever the muggle nurse had done and applied his own healing spells.

Her ribs were not hurting as much now, thankfully and the burn salve he was applying on her back was doing wonders. In no time, she was bandaged like an Egyptian mummy and had a dose of Skelegrow in her hand that she downed before Draco could tell her to wait the night.

“You still have one patient to see to, you know,” Hermione interrupted the blond man as he lectured her on the proper use of potions.

She pointed at Mycroft who was sitting on the other end of the long couch, quiet and taking in every word the two of them had exchanged. He did not look happy. Draco scuttled over and made quick work of Mycroft’s broken finger and little scrapes, but Hermione had enough time to discretely levitate a Pepper-up and a Grand Tonicker out of his potions bag. With those two potions she would have enough strength and energy to put her plan into motion immediately. Once the healer had left with a loud crack from the room, Hermione watched as Mycroft closed the self-imposed distance between them and hugged her tight against him.

“Are you really leaving?” he asked, his voice rumbling in his chest where her head lay.

“I won’t have a choice, you know. And Kingsley should be arriving here soon by the way, you might want to… not hold me so close so he doesn’t make things more difficult for us.”

Mycroft leaned back to look at her, seeing she was serious and took a reluctant step back from the couch, only to bend down and catch her lips. It felt horribly like a goodbye kiss, it was too intense and desperate. Then he really did take his distance, and she hated it. She hadn’t realised how much she had gotten used to their proximity until now.

“I’ll be back though, when all this is over,” she promised. “If you still want me here.”

The corner of his eyes crinkled slightly and he was probably about to say something that would make her heart skip a beat again, but the flames in the chimney turned green again and the impressive hulking shape of the Minister of Magic stepped out, followed by another man, much smaller and lankier with long brown hair tied at the nape of his neck.

“Kingsley, Michael, to what do we owe the pleasure of your visit?” Hermione asked sweetly. “Would you like some tea, maybe?”

“Hermione,” Kingsley growled, looking her over from head to foot. “I know exactly what happened at St Bart’s. I gather Healer Malfoy has seen to your wounds already?”

“It wasn’t that bad, Kingsley. The intel your were given was probably a tad over-dramatic.”

“Oh, really? There’s a bloody crater in that parking lot, Hermione. The Prophet is spinning a wild tale about your involvement and Harry has been breathing down my neck for putting you in such a dangerous position.”

“Come on, you know how protective he is. Just ignore him. It was nothing I couldn’t take care off, obviously.”

“I’m sorry, but it’s in your own interest.” Kingsley said.

Mycroft shuffled uneasily beside her. This was not going well. She’d hoped she might placate Kingsley but he was obviously set on having her replaced, regardless of what she said, since he had brought Michael along. Her boss was introducing him to Mycroft already so it was time for plan B.

“I guess I’ll just go back to my lab, then. You did restock it, didn’t you?” she asked Kingsley.

“No. You’re taking a few days off, young lady,” Kingsley scolded.

Hermione wanted to snort at the man being all fatherly on her but faked a pout and disapparated on the spot, not daring to glance at Mycroft before she left in case Kingsley caught the longing there . And she couldn’t just stand by watching as Mycroft’s security was handed over to someone else. Sure, Michael was good, but he just wasn’t as good as she was. No, she would have to get rid of the problem at the source. Then there would be no need for a bodyguard.

 

OoOoO

 

Mycroft stared at the spot where Hermione had disappeared with a loud bang. He knew that meant she was not just invisible but that she was not here anymore. He reluctantly returned his attention to the Minister of Magic who had telling him something or other about the young man who was to be his new bodyguard.

“Is this really necessary, Minister?” Mycroft asked. “I mean, I don’t believe you offered your liaisons  before me such protection, except during your war of course.”

“Well, no,” the dark man admitted, “but if we have the intelligence of a threat and the means to stop it, it seems such a waste not to do what is best.”

“And how did you get this intelligence? From what I know, this is purely a muggle affair, as you say.” Mycroft asked. He had wondered this from the beginning, ever since the Minister of Magic had told him he’d be sending a bodyguard over for a little while, but he hadn’t dared ask before. The magical people had been an oddity he dealt with as little as possible before...before he met Hermione. Now, it was much easier to consider them as any other person, only with an additional set of interesting skills.

“Ah, well…” The Minister scratched his bald head, clearly undecided about sharing their source. “Uhm, I don’t suppose you believe in prophecies?”

“Prophecies?” Mycroft repeated, waiting for the other ball to drop, but it didn’t. “You’re serious.”

“I’m afraid so,” Shacklebolt said with a wan smile. “Our last war started and ended with a prophecy, so it’s become quite the serious area of research in our world and Michael Corner here is actually the one who discovered a prophecy that pertains to you.”

“Me? But I’m a muggle.” Mycroft protested, saying the word with disdain.

“Which is why we found and identified the prophecy so fast, it is an anomaly. Otherwise it would probably have been put aside until it was too late.” Corner explained excitedly.

“So why is it of such interest to you then? What does this...prophecy say?” Yes, Mycroft did not believe in such drivel, but he also would not have believed in magic before seeing a man step out of his chimney for the first time, and even then, he had been frantically searching for a rational explanation for longer than he cared to admit.

“Well, prophecies are very obscure, it’s hard to find any meaning to them at all most of the time, but from what our researchers in the Hall of Prophecies told me,” the Minister answered. “You are one of two cornerstone for the stability of both our worlds following the fall of Voldemort. Our world is still recovering. It’s population growth, economy and place in the rest of the magical world is shaky at best. In fact, our only hope of growth comes from the muggle-borns your world offers us, your stability now ensures our future stability.”

“So according to this prophecy, I’m the only one who prevents my world from falling into chaos?” the two men nodded. “Yes, that seems about right,” he agreed.

It was nice to know even magic acknowledged the importance of his work.

“Alright, I understand the need for another bodyguard, then.” Mycroft said.

“I’m sorry if Hermione... Miss Granger, left you with a bad impression,” the Minister said and Mycroft was glad he had his pokerface still on. “She’s a bit willful and has a rather unique method, but it has proven to be effective in the past.”

“Yes,” Mycroft agreed. “She is quite unique, but she has saved my life three times so I think she can be forgiven her little quirks.”

Once the Minister left, Mycroft accepted Corner’s offer for an invisible presence and decided he really didn’t want to know whether the young man watched him sleeping of followed him in the shower. This time, he would definitely forget all about there being someone shadowing him round the clock.

OoOoO

 

"What do you mean, you plead guilty? I haven't even gotten around to accusing you yet," Sherlock protested when he finally found the man he was looking for: Adalberto Ortis, the son of a South American ambassador who had been ill-advised enough to think he could settle his little criminal organisation of extortion and blackmail on British soil without suffering any consequences, the idiot.

It hadn’t even taken that long to find him. After being released from the hospital, he and John had searched for a couple of days around London for the place that had rented out an enormous chocolate fountain for a formal event. Finding who Miss Binkley’s murderer was had then been a piece of cake and the detective had strolled into the culprit’s luxurious house, only to discover the people inside had been reduced to sobbing messes begging for forgiveness for their crimes. Their boss was no better.

"I'm such a bad person. I stole, I lied, I killed and maimed. Such a bad, bad boy." The man sobbed, begging on his knees as he clutched at the hem of Sherlock’s coat. "Please put me in jail, mister detective.”

The detective, however, was not amused. He had wanted to show the culprit how clever he had been to have found him so quickly so this situation, although unusual, was quite frustrating.

"What's wrong with him, John? This is dull. Is he drugged?"

John inspected the man's eyes, his pupils as small as a pin's head. He nodded.

"Seems like it, Sherlock. It doesn't mean he isn't telling the truth, though, so you might as well question him."

Sherlock looked at their suspect: young, rich, arrogant, seeking for power to prove himself to his overbearing father. Classic.

"Alright," Sherlock said half-heartedly. “Test question: when was the last time you pissed yourself?”

“Is that really necessary, Sherlock?” John asked.

“Just a couple hours ago,” the man answered at the same time.

“See, John. I just proved he’s compelled to tell the truth,” Sherlock answered smugly. “No man would willingly admit it. He must have been given some truth serum, or maybe been hypnotized. Hey, have you been drugged?”

The man stared with a blank expression for a minute.

“No. Maybe. I don’t know,” he shook his head. “Yes? Please, I don’t know…”

“Alright, then tell me what happened exactly a couple of hours ago,” the detective prodded.

The man shuddered.

“The dark woman with no face. She came out of nowhere. She did...I don’t know. The guards were crying and she was looking for me. I hid but she found me...I was so scared. I’m a bad, bad boy. I did terrible things. Please arrest me, mister detective, I deserve it, I really do.”

Sherlock sighed at hearing such nonsense. He might as well get it over with and let Lestrade sort the mess out.

“Did you kill Miss Binkley?”

"Melinda?” the man answered, seeming relieved to change subject. “Oh, yes! I drowned her in the chocolate fountain. I thought it would be fun but it was so gross and the bitch wouldn’t even tell me where she hid the flash drive, the stupid-"

"Alright," Sherlock interrupted his rant. "That's enough evidence for me. John, call Lestrade. I think I'll go home and be depressed about such a lame ending to the case. Maybe you can call it A Study in Disappointment."

He then turned on his heels and left by the way they’d come.

“You’re not even waiting for Lestrade to arrive?” John called behind him.

“Dull,” Sherlock shot back.

 

OoOoO

 

Mycroft was not sleeping well. It had only been four days since Hermione had left and he had resumed his habit of sleeping with one eye open. He knew his invisible bodyguard was probably in the room somewhere, but that knowledge didn’t bring Mycroft the peace Hermione had. He guessed he was just being sentimental. Stupid, the most logical part of his brain corrected for him, pining after a woman like a lovesick puppy.

Mycroft turned over in his bed, hitting his pillow into a fluffier shape and huffing in annoyance that his brain would not let him rest in peace when he had an important meeting tomorrow. He closed his eyes, trying to relax and thought he had started to drift off when he caught a whiff Hermione’s subtle Lavender scent. He almost sighed in relief, feeling the tension leave his face before he felt a warm hand touch his cheek. He almost scrambled out of bed but he heard her voice, low and soft, as she chuckled mischievously.

He looked around the room but couldn’t see his new bodyguard anywhere.

“Hermione?” he whispered, reaching in the dark towards the expanse of bed in front of him.

“I’m here, love,” she whispered in his ear, making goosebumps rise all across his neck.

He felt her weight dip the mattress and reached blindly behind him, pulling her over him so she was nestled in his arms.

“Where’s Corner?” he murmured.

“I got rid of him,” she replied.

“Should I be worried?” he asked.

“No, I only put him to sleep for an hour or two.”

“Only so long?” he asked, disappointed because it meant she wasn’t staying.

“Any more and he would be suspicious. But Kingsley should be calling him off tomorrow and then…”

“Are you sure?” he wondered.

The Minister of Magic had seemed to imply he would need to be protected for longer, but he trusted Hermione. If she said the threat was over, then it meant she heard it on good authority or… He looked down at the woman in his arms who looked up at him with a sharp glint in her eyes. He knew that look, he saw it often enough in the mirror. It was the gaze of someone who had done something questionable but necessary and was perfectly fine to live with that knowledge.

“Alright,” he acquiesced. “How did you find them? You didn’t even have all the data, since you never questioned me.”

“I followed Sherlock of course,” she grinned.

“You used my brother? The celebrated genius Sherlock Holmes?” he asked with a touch of disbelief. But of course, she would. It was just the kind of completely unpredictable things Hermione did without warning and that explained why he was so smitten with the woman.

“He’s brilliant and stubborn so he was bound to find them. And as long as he doesn’t find out I used him, he won’t hold it against me. And, just so you know, I didn’t lift a wand against the people who were after you.”

“You didn’t?” he asked, surprised.

It seemed unlikely she could take on a sizeable organized criminal group all on her own without using her wand. Even in his arms, she seemed small and fragile.

“Oh, no. I drugged them. Well, their dinner to be more precise. A drop of Elixir of Despair and three drops of Veritaserum and they would were all ready to confess their slightest crime since the day of their birth. By the time the police process them, they’ll have full confessions and no trace of the drugs left, not that a lab would know what to look for anyway. So I’m cleared and you should be safe for a little while at least.”

“You devious woman,” he said, before kissing her tenderly until she responded with more eagerness. A little too much. They were getting carried away when Corner might recover at any minute now.

“Hermione,” he mumbled between kisses, always the voice of reason.

“Yes,” she panted. “Yes, I know.”

She sighed and rolled off the bed.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said, pecked the corner of his mouth, and then vanished in the night again.

She had a flair for dramatics and try as he might, he couldn’t understand how she had left. The door hadn’t opened and he hadn’t heard that loud bang magical people made when teleporting, but then again, there was so much he didn’t know about magic. For all he knew, she had walked through the solid brick wall, so he made a mental note to ask her about the limits to her magical abilities. There was so much about her he didn’t know. When he usually had an interest in someone, it was not difficult for him, given his position to find everything there is to know about said person, but that wouldn’t work with Hermione, he had to get to know her the old-fashioned way and he was strangely okay with that.

Stupid sentimentality, his brain supplied. There is no advantage to caring.

“Yes there is,” he told himself. “If someone cares for you in return.”

 

OoOoO

  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright everyone, I'm ending it here because I don't have much to add to the story without getting all boring and mushy. But I wanted to thank you for reading to the end. See you next story!


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